


Barren

by Measured



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, Curses, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Major Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 11:55:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3935866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Measured/pseuds/Measured
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doubts grow in Noire's mind as she begins to realize the aftereffects of dark magic and the past have already begun to ravage her body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barren

**Author's Note:**

> hc_bingo: trust issues. Noire's father is Henry, and though it doesn't come up, Laurent's father is Ricken.

It had been on the back of her mind, a certain fear from the moment she'd married him. _What if I'm not good enough? He could've married a princess, but instead...he married me._

She could stand tall, but she'd still shiver. She was barely a hero, sewn at the seams of fury and cowardice. Each pulled at each other, her body made of oil and water. Constantly shifting and transforming. The gentle girl, the beast.

Even through his reserved affection she couldn't beat the thoughts which welled up around her. The worst tormenter in her life her own reflection, the harsh words in her mind in her own voice, her own hate.

_This is temporary. He will leave you. It's only a matter of time. You are not enough._

They slunk in like shadows at dusk. Every month as the weeks wound down, she waited. She became more prone to breaking, the monster inside her skin rising up. Laurent loved the sight of her vicious, screaming of retribution. She'd never thought that she'd find someone who liked both her weakness and outbursts, but Laurent somehow did, or at least claimed to.

Ever the pessimist, Noire couldn't quite trust anyone fully, least of all herself. 

At night, after the stormy outbursts, she'd cling closer to him. Noire would tell herself that if she could be stronger, if she could break herself and make anew, she could become worthy and strong enough. She could will away the flares of panic and night terrors And as every month passed, so would a voice remind her. There was a vicious little secret under her skin, one that she couldn't keep forever. He never asked, but she knew the signs. Magic-sickness, deep to the bone, to the fiber of her being. Sometimes she'd look to her fingers when he was away and look for traces of black dust. Wait for the hint of the rot inside her.

_Would the leaves blacken if I touched them? Is the curse so deep in my body that one day he will wither as well?_

Only a true blood-scrying would tell. But she feared the knowing almost as much as she feared the rotting away. 

Like a risen, but still living. The ones that escaped the Grimleal fell to the curse-sickness. Insanity, wasting away to bones and rot until only the dark magic was left.

As they traveled, she kept this secret in quiet spells and long pauses. Sometimes she thought she could feel the magic eating away at her even then. 

*

The townspeople didn't have to inform her of the sorceress; even the faintest hint of a curse would awaken a panic inside her and call to her, like a siren's song. But instead of pushing away, and giving in to the fear that clawed inside her, she forced her way through the forest. Towards the root of her fear, until she came to the source of the power.

She'd left a note before she went into the forest. Thorns tore at her skin, freeing the rage inside her. She'd long learned how to clutch her talisman and hold a bow at the same time. Ghosts and shadows lurked behind every bramble to join the fears of her own mind. 

Her hand hovered above the door. She had to steady her breath and the racing of her heart. Every nerve and wire of her screamed to leave, go as far away from the curses as she could. 

But a sorceress knew curses, knew them like the worn lines of their hands.

The air was dank with curses and must. She shivered as she stepped lower. Carved out of the countryside, the inside of the dwelling was so dark that all she could see were flashes of animal bones and fur. Sigils were burned into the walls, and glowed faintly. The fire was raised high, yet darkness still stole away in corners.

Leaves were woven into her thick gray hair. She tilted her head, wiser than even her many years. Her eyes were cloudy white; Noire's mother had talked of sorcerers who even gave their body up slowly to the power. Her dark robes were tightly pulled about her body, the front secured with a tarnished broach in the shape of a staring eye.

Noire had never cast a curse, but she'd felt and seen enough for a lifetime. She knew all the steps, the steak of blood and charred bone, the acrid scent in the air. 

"You'll have to speak up, I'm hard of hearing," the woman said said.

"I'm....um, I'm...let me see."

She gripped her talisman tight.

"This mewling weakling of a vessel has grown frail and even more sickly and pathetic than usual!"

She released the talisman and put it into her pouch. The woman nodded. "That's a powerful curse, indeed."

"Mother was very powerful," she said softly. 

And father was even stronger. She remembered him leaning close to sing her lullabies of the most gruesome kind, but that always made her laugh. His fingers danced with magic that was even then tearing at him. But most dark mages didn't live long enough to feel the corruption; he was no exception.

She reached out with a craggy hand. "I'll need your blood for a reading, child," she said. Her voice was a rasp, ravaged by time. Noire's hand trembled as she reached for the thorn. She flinched, weak even after all this time. With all the times she'd had to give blood for a spell, she'd never gotten used to the quick and sharp pain.

Across the sand, a splatter of color. Her blood turned black in an instant. Smoke rose from the fire and she could see no hint of greenery, no future but a pale gray reflection. She'd read enough curses to know the meaning. Even if she couldn't cast one herself, even if she was nothing but a failed experiment, destined to be nothing but an assistant.

"Now, the offering," the woman said. She motioned to the wall, but Noire already knew. She plucked up a dry stick, and laid it across the sand. Almost instantly, the brittle stick broke under her touch. The sorceress shook her head.

"Not a hopeless case, but not a good one, either. I can smell the magic on you. Do you know what brittleness means?"

Yes, she knew well. Barrenness, a body born to fast decay. No life would grow, and little chance of a future.

She gazed at Noire with eyes turned milky white with age. She saw something deeper in Noire, the very life force. The best magicians could see it, and even the future. Noire had never managed more than a few simple spells by following her mother's work before she started practicing the bow.

"Is that what you came to seek, child?"

"It's....what I always knew," she said. Her voice choked off. She wouldn't sob here. She bit her lower lip, tasting blood. Her skin had bruised and ripped so easily. 

She left her gold pieces there, along with her last innocent hopes of a happy ending. Of course it wouldn't be that easy; it never was.

*

Everything was neatly arranged in their cabin. Their own little slice of the world, at least until his wanderlust and curiosity got the best of him. No dust ever lingered long in their house, nothing ever stayed out of order long. One thought that she could never quite push away was that _it was so neat, I don't even fit here in all my chaos._

He didn't look up from his notes when she came in. The scratch of his quill was a grating sound. Long hours in study were hardly a surprise; Nothing less to be expected from Miriel the Bright's child. Still, sometimes she'd shut the door just to be rid of the repetition.

She cleared her throat, perhaps too quietly. The quill left a perfectly lined script as he jotted down another letter back to the mother of this time, or observation.

"Listen now, witness the end of everything you have loved!"

He dropped his quill. The book was closed in an instant as he flush-faced paid his full attention to her.

"Ah—I didn't realize you'd come home. You're as fearsome and lovely as ever."

He could get so lost in his studies. At peace, slumber and attention to novels and letters alike was a luxury they could finally have.

The force and rage left her as soon as it had come. 

"I....I came from the sorceress. She confirmed what I always suspected. I-I'll... I'll never give you children. I'll probably not even live long, with the effects of the other world." Her voice trailed off into a whisper. 

And the curses, she didn't say. Couldn't bring herself to say. Too little food, too much exposure to dark magic. It was a common side effect, why so many dark mage families were so small. Not all children survived the harsh climate. Even less if they were Grimleal. Her mother may not have laid her on the table for the dragon to devour as so many other Plegians had, but the cold had slipped under her skin all the same.

She couldn't look him in the eyes as she spoke.

"If you want to leave, then... do it now. Pack your things now and do it before I lose my nerve and beg you to stay," she said.

Every word hurt to say. Strike quick, like ripping off bandages, cutting off a limb. 

Laurent rose. Out of the corner of her eye, past all this perfect order, she saw the green and brown of her robes. "Noire, don't be preposterous," Laurent said.

"I'm _damaged,_ Laurent. I'll never be a good fighter, a good wife for you, let alone be a good mother if I even could even bear a child. I'm always going to be scared of every shadow. You deserve better than this---" 

_You deserve someone who will live. Someone who will give you a happy life. Children and days without waking up in terror._

She clenched her fists. Every word she said had be spoken above the monotonous thoughts in her head. Over and over _Don't go, please don't leave me here--_

She'd never felt this safe before, and at times she almost believed in herself this far away from battle or curses. Sometimes, she'd calmed enough to believe that this could last. Still, she started at every shadow, the shock of possible risen or curses in every corner enough to bring out her other side.

And she couldn't weigh him down while she sunk into an abyss. The dark water of the magic and lingering effects of starvation might take her, but he could still be saved.

"Don't say such things. You undervalue your importance."

She turned away. Noire couldn't bear to see the concern in his gaze, his usual calmness broken by her outburst. She hadn't heard the book close, or his steps.

"But, I won't--"

"I married _you_. Not the promise of future children. You are far more than mere fecundity--as if I'd only see you useful as a _brood mare_ , " Laurent said. 

She didn't reply, except for a little noise in the back of her throat.

"I'd like to think you believe me, but my hypothesis is that you don't," Laurent said.

"I want to," she said in a small voice.

He closed his arms about her and held her to his chest. Gentle enough that even her curse-ridden skin didn't bruise. His breath was warm against her neck. He kissed her there, at her nape. Slow and long, enough that she could remember so many other kisses and touches that she had never trusted fully, no matter how precious they were to her.

"You might catch the magic sickness," she said.

"Then so be it. It will be a learning experience, something to write to my mother in our next series of missives."

She didn't pull away. The moment had passed, and he hadn't left.

"We could travel back. Even if I have to storm Naga's own domain to find a way to find a cure, we will surmount this."

She slowly put her hand over his. 

Could Naga even beat back the lingering sickness? Curses only responded to the dark. If her mother's distance had caused this, then perhaps the past mother, the one who wasn't hers could fix it, or father with his love of blood and gore, and his vast knowledge of curses. All said with kindness, with a smile on his face.

"You'll really stay?" she said. 

"There was never a question of leaving," he said.

She settled against him, her fraying nerves momentarily calmed. At least, until he went on.

"We could take in an orphan," Laurent said. 

She tensed against him. "No... You aren't listening at all! I could never---What if they were terrified of my other side? I'll never be fit to be a mother--"

He let go of her, only to fill the spaces of her fingers with his own.

"Then it's just us, for the rest of our lives. Worry and fret, scream and rage, all your vitriol and fragility will only make me love you more," Laurent said.

He'd accepted so many parts which she'd thought no one would accept or like about her. But this was what she thought would be the breaking point. His hands in hers reminded Noire that the promise was not made in vain. When the ghosts came again, she would remind herself again, no matter how many times it took to beat back the shadows in her own mind.

–  
One of Noire's responses to child!Morgan is _"What good will it do you to know about me? Wait. Did the enemy hire you to spy on me? Are you planning to spring some curse? I know where this is going! You have my mother's wicked blood in you, too! The greatest dangers are under one's own roof, clearly!"_ It's what started this story.

Also, one of Laurent's married tile lines is _"You worry too much, that's why I love you. I promise to avoid what perils I can."_

Technically in her child!Morgan glowing tile conversations, she says _"I always look sickly-it's in my blood. But I'm more or less healthy. Honest."_


End file.
